


The Golden Age

by lifeinwords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinwords/pseuds/lifeinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver wants to play again. (Written post-GoF)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Golden Age

The scene should be epic. Hogwarts reunion party cum post-war celebration; alcohol flowing and mouths moving silently under the noise; the beautiful overgrown living still stunned at their weeks-old victory. Cameras flash near the door, light up a messy mix of blackredbrown hair. All the gang’s together.

Oliver Wood slumped at a stool in the corner; hand curved around a pint, staring over at some pale-faced, white-haired spy who’s somehow lost his sneer.

Malfoy must be uncomfortable with his friends gone and enemies at the next table. He looks like Snape, and Oliver wonders how much alcohol it would take to loosen him up.

Sends a drink over, mumbles “No” when the moustached bartender asks, “Anything else, sir?” Bars with tablecloths and colored cocktails don’t have peanuts, so Oliver just turns to watch. Follows Malfoy’s glance up, glare over, lazy stroll across the room to the stool conveniently located next to him.

“Keeping up old Quiddich-player relations, Wood? Not exactly your scene.”

“Not yours either, it seems. Or were you about to offer a toast to the Great Hero, Harry Potter?”

Malfoy orders two double whiskeys and tells Oliver to shut it.

***  
Oliver wants to play again.

Proved himself at seventeen. What’s next, what’s now: player on minor team fought with captain tore rotator cuff owner of Quiddich bar muscles atrophied middle thick nose red doesn’t call home looks through seventh-year scrapbook on Friday nights.

Oliver’s not drunk enough to stop thinking about it, but Malfoy’s raised eyebrow goes a long way. Nods and follows his slightly-weaving form through the crowd, which parts without a glance as they leave the party. Pop! of apparation, giggling stumble through the door, and the elevator is too quiet. Oliver’s ears are ringing, making Malfoy’s words unintelligible.

“What?” Elevator ding and they’re out in the hall, Oliver trailing his fingers down Malfoy’s arm as they reach the door.

“How do you want it?” Oh, Malfoy thinks he’s a top, thinks he’s drawing the plays and running the patterns. Oliver will just have to show him otherwise.

Same hotel smell of a thousand away games, same overcool room and anonymous bedspread, scarlet this time and turned back. Oliver never got mints with the Lubbers, but he pulls on his tie and thinks about Malfoy begging. It works too well: Malfoy’s grinning like he knows how long it’s been.

“On the bed.” Quick surprised movement, and no. He hasn’t forgotten how to order like a captain.

“Tie off, face down. My show, Malfoy, or no show at all. Your pick.” Oliver keeps his clothes on, but for the tie, which slides smooth and tight around the bed frame. Thank God for ostentatious wizard beds, with their knobbed posts and carvings suspended magically along the headboard. Plenty of room to spread Malfoy out, cinch the thin wrists above his head.

Moaning already, Oliver notes. Grits his teeth and refuses to touch just yet. Malfoy’s tie is silk; Malfoy’s blood is blue; Malfoy’s past is…Oliver doesn’t want to know.

Leans down to whisper: “Been a long time, Malfoy? Or have you never given it up before, had that pretty face pushed into a mattress. Ever wanted anything you couldn’t have?”

“You know nothing about me, Wood, so I wouldn’t presume to make character judgments if I were you.” Voice trembling like his shoulders, drawn up so high they’re nearly off the bed.

“Oh oh oh, too snotty by half. We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we? Don’t speak unless you can beg.” Belt now, cracked in places and no longer smooth with oil. Oliver never took to polishing anything but broomsticks and gold cups, so he takes Malfoy’s instead.

***

It takes ten strokes, quick and sharp over bared white buttocks. Malfoy looks so firm there, skin white enough that a fingernail brings a red line to the surface. Oliver’s feeling the twist in his gut, now, seeing clothes rucked up and down to bare only what’s necessary. He swallows a moan when Malfoy starts begging.

“Please, stop, I’ll do anything,” Nothing Oliver hasn’t heard before, and control’s always sweetest when you use it to win.

A wave of his wand and the ties become shackles, giving Malfoy just enough range to wriggle up off of his chest and turn around. Both of them panting now; Malfoy’s cock red as his ass and he looks so sweet, his head bent and skin sweaty.

“Right there,” Oliver orders. “Stay on your knees.” He drops his wand but keeps the belt, and switches it to his left hand to unbutton his trousers.

He pulls himself through the hole in his boxers and crawls up onto the bed, nudges Malfoy down until he’s hissing. Oliver knows the burn of hot flesh touching cool bedspread, stinging scrape over cloth, and he grins as he works his way up to Malfoy’s face.

His eyes are wet, a pleasant surprise. Oliver takes a moment to enjoy the sight: Malfoy hasn’t stopped struggling since they began, and his wrists are chafed nearly raw. Mouth all open and ready and not nearly red enough.

Gasp and he’s in, cruel tongue working him over, sucking him down. Hot squeeze of a throat so much better than anything Malfoy could ask for. Oliver’s shuddering and using his hands like he’s been taught. Carefully cupping Malfoy’s head like the winning shot, fingers so tight he can’t let go, just has to shove and thrust and move, aiming Malfoy straight and true.

Oliver doesn’t look down. He doesn’t have to. Everyone knows Seekers have split-second reflexes, can intuit how the Snitch will move just in time to snatch it. No one appreciates a Keeper’s timing, though. It doesn’t win the game, after all, doesn’t matter once that gold has been sighted.

You have your moments, though. Every sound in the audience stifled; all you can hear is your heart thudding, the wind behind the Quaffle screaming by you. A save that wrenches all the muscles in your body, a straining reaching catch that only matters until you throw it away.

The game goes on even if Malfoy’s choking, so Oliver reaches down and pulls himself free, pushes Malfoy back with his suddenly beltless hand. Slaps him once, twice, almost an afterthought. Rubs a knee right where Malfoy needs it and leans down to that milk-white throat.

“Go on, Malfoy. Get it over with. Then you can look at all the heroes and know that you’ve got my mark on your arse, my teeth on your neck. Wouldn’t they just laugh, if they knew? Poor little once-rich boy, buggered by the has-been.”

“Fuck. You.” Malfoy’s voice throbs, and Oliver can feel it under his mouth. It sounds nothing like an invitation, but Oliver bites down anyway.

“Just give me a moment, and we’ll see what we can do about that. Hmm?” Flicks pointed licks over the tooth marks. Snickers when Malfoy bucks up. Ah, Seekers. So light, so easy to pin.

“Do it already, if you’re going to. Stop playing, Wood.” His voice is hoarse, and Oliver thinks he can smell himself on Malfoy’s breath.

“Alright, then. Game over.” And Oliver tugs at the shackles and prepares for a good long ride.


End file.
